PART 13-14: HERO APOMIXIS

Hero Apomixis is a work of stream of consciousness written over 22 months while the author was incarcerated in Attica Correctional Facility in 2000/01. A story of tortuous experience at the hands of a broken social services system, bad parenting, and the Prison Industrial Complex, Hero begins to lose his mind as evidenced by fantacide and dreamories only interrupted by prison feedings. Hero is either a victim or a sociopath. The book challenges us to ask, “What would you do?”

“If you like Dante, if you like Bosch, if you like Burroughs, you’ll dig the brutally dark brilliance of C.A. Seller’s HERO APOMIXIS. A rare stroke of ever darkening courage. Welcome to hell.” Ron Whitehead

but he never bothered him with that fucking flashlight again. Hero would have tried to seriously hurt one of them

if they had rolled up on him in his cage that night. They

had absolutely no sense of fair play. He noticed that

a lot of the younger cops were very mouthy. The older ones

weren’t much better but at least there you had a shot at

some kind of mutual respect. The younger ones were just

retarded. Abusive and retarded. Hero thought he deserved

just a little more than that as he’d been coming in and out

for the past 15 years. The entire situation was a reflection

of the immaturity that was coming of age everywhere. He

had 2 words for all that and went to thinking about how

Jimmy must’ve felt every time he sat down to take a shit,

a shower, got undressed, or when he got good and greased

up to get butt-fucked in that bony little black ass of his.

The 2 words were, “Fuckin’ Asshole.”

Hero tried to sleep, tried not to worry about getting

sick in Attica. He was afraid and willed himself to get

better. This was serious biz and he wondered if his liver

wasn’t fucking up in a big way but the symptoms weren’t

there – not enough of them anyway.

“Relax,” he told himself resigned to the fact that it

didn’t pay to worry about something he couldn’t do anything to

change. Hero knew what he needed here. A philosophy like:

EI Borbah , the famous Mexican/Detective/Wrestler in the

comics. “Got to be smart, got to be tough, just like El

Borbah, yeah, that’s the ticket.” He thought the bed had

developed a life of its own and genuinely wished it had.

Something was very wrong with the way his brain was interpreting his body’s senses. It was like being drunk but much

worse and no fun at all either, no, no fun at all. Hero

had never sniffed glue when he was a kid but always

imagined that this was what it would feel like. On the other

hand, he’d smoked angel dust and even snorted the white

powder PCP called “mescaline” in Montreal almost 20 years

before. “Oh, shit!” Hero said when he thought about all

those horror stories he’d heard about bad drugs when he

was a teenager. “What if some of that shit is still inside

my brain or something? I’ll be tripping-out forever. No. No.

A bunch of burnt scrambled eggs filled the screen while

an announcer spoke,

“These are your eggs on dust – GabbaGabba- Hey!”

It did feel a lot like being dusted though. Dust always

fucked with how objects felt and all your other sensory

perceptions like where you thought your body was and time,

too. A whole lot of interesting brain parts were stimulated.

Hero had experienced a mutual precognitive vision on the white

powder PCP and had a friend who’d dealt dust years ago

– a very good artist – who told him about how he’d stacked

pennies on a doorknob upside down while he was high on

dust. A lot of other folks used to smoke entirely too

much of the shit; 4 and 5 bags in one sitting until they

turned into violent retards – or actually – more violent

retards than they already were. Hero was a tea toddler

when it came to dust – the shit was strong and people flipped out

and even died from it sometimes.

His ass shifted as though the whole bed had – slowly vibrating

4 or 5 times and then it didn’t do it again for a while.

“ … is it wrong to gamble or just to lose on this pleasure

cruise?”

Hero stood up to watch smoke exit his mouth in the mirror

from un-inhaled drags of his cigarette. He thought he looked

like some kind of medieval dragon.

“One in 3 dragons who smoke die from it,” some goody-two shoes said in a young, clear, and masculine voice.

“You asshole – they all smoke!” He told the disembodied

voice annoyed at the idea that if someone didn’t know what

they were talking about they should strongly consider

shutting the fuck up. Hero sat back down at his table overlooking

tropical plants leafy and canopy covering the earth

all the way to the waters’ edge: sipping rum and coke, waiting

for another shrimp cocktail. He lit the ha1f a sp1iff of

local kind bud and toked pleasant letting the smoke dream

blue from deep lungs held sweetly long and taste.

“Ahh,” said Hero welcome and warmly when Jassara brought

his shrimp and a small bowl of freshly cut lemon.

“Another rum and coke, Hero?”

“Yes, please, Jassara, thank you.”

Tears of joy evaporated by the tropical heat now cool

with the setting sun west – sounds of Eno and then some

music Hero didn’t know, Sade perhaps? Yes, Sade. Boats full

of lobster, shrim, and broken traps headed back towards shore.

“Look! There they are!” one cried out – and another yet,

“Yoohoo! Patrice! Over here!” waving her sunhat wildly,

all of them with smiles gigantic.

The sun was swallowed into the sea and before it a reflection

of her beauty – ripple shimmer summer’s easy warm evening.

A special gift. Other diners arrived dressed loose, cool,

and relaxed. They said hello to Hero and he smiled and raised

his head to nod in recognition of their friendly shared

approval for the evening as they sat down at one of the

large round wooden tables nearby. Jassara lit the candle

in a red net wrapped glass at the center and the party

of four laughed as they gave her their drink orders.

Jassara: girlishly petit with small pert breasts and thick

dark nipples surrounded by a natural rouge that you could

sometimes see through her shirt. Her body was supple soft

and her skin very deeply tanned by the Equatorial sun. Shoulder

length black hair gleaming with thick curls all crowded

together so that Jassara’s hair looked as did no other woman’s.

She parted it in the middle over big exciting brown eyes

and brows dark and upswept glistening with tiny beads of

sweat. Lips so bronze and full, Jassara was what men meant

when they said a woman was a jewel.

In temperament nuance and style even the least of her

movements held forth treasures to the eyes of those who

sought such things: composers, painters, sculptors, writers,

poets and artisans of every ilk. He loved to watch her. They were like cousins. She the pretty younger first cousin one might flirt with affectionately the way cousins do sometimes.

He imagined them as almost brother and sister. He

older by close to a decade and the roles reversed . Hero

the carefree devil-may-care while Jassara was the sensible

fun yet mature younger sister. And they loved each other

to their deaths. How they giggled when they were stoned.

It was infectious.

Hero knocked off the shrimp cocktail and finished up his

rum and coke. Jassara dropped his bill on the table as she

made her way to the party of four with a small round tray crowded with drinks that she carried up near her bare shoulder with ease. Hero laid some notes on the table and picked

up his roach, thought for a moment, and then replaced it

near the bill and notes for Jassara who he knew would like

to have it for later – maybe alone or with her girlfriends

all giggling gorgeous sexy and young. Good girls, Hero told

himself, and he felt good about his life and the people

in it. So bright everything and everyone. So clean and

clear inside and out. Turning, he said goodnight on his

way past the two couples who were laughing in between sips

on their straws.

“Bueno noche,” one of the young men smilingly told Hero

who smiled back at all of them and then he waved to Jassara

who was busy at another table with a couple of pensioners

on holiday. He smiled happy to see her smile back and wave

to him so hard. Hero followed his way around the building

towards the street and headed back to his cell in A-block

where a cold draft was running over a floor made of

marble divided by brass strips, each one-sixteenth

of an inch wide every 3 feet. The cop was bitching at someone

for playing their TV too loud.

“Turn it down or I’ll turn it off!” in reference to that

inmate’s electricity. Where is this anal joker at 3:00A.M.

when General was blasting all that bad fucking dub?

The cold crept up to just past his knees into his thighs,

on top strange and cold.

Hero wanted to be like one of those Buddhist masters who

meditated into their physical deaths in such a way that

their students couldn’t tell if they were dead or not for

weeks. It was said that their bodies didn’t begin to decay

for at least a month. A guitar player who practiced Wu Shu

had told him about great martial arts Zen dudes who didn’t

die. Instead their bodies exited this physical plane leaving

behind only their hair and fingernails but he didn’t believe him.

“What about their teeth?” the precocious 18 year old Hero

had asked.

“No, only their hair and nails,” said Cliff, holding his

delicate brown hands – palms down – before Hero to reiterate,

“fingernails.”

Cliff was a very good guitar player and a skilled martial

Artist. He was half Japanese and half African American,

a very beautiful man raised in Japan. He’d sell you pot

and then smoke it with you without batting an eyelash. Oh,

and he was a dancer, too. Ballet. Hero hadn’t seen him in

almost 10 years and could’ve sworn that Cliff still owed

him a few bucks for something, he just couldn’t remember

what. No matter, Clifford had helped Hero out a number of

times when he was a kid too young to know better and too dumb to care.

PART THREE:

AGENTS OF THE FREE

OR

NO SHIRT, NO SHOES, NO SERVICE.

CHAPTER 14

Hero drifted off to sleep walking south on 1st Ave. near

6th Street with a purple assed baboon who was experiencing

deja vu. Hero scratched the rash on his stomach and the

baboon vaguely recalled a terrible scene of discrimination

and flying broken glass in a restaurant someplace further

uptown a long, long time ago. He motioned with his left

hand towards the McFood’s entrance and as they walked up

to the glass double doors Hero took the baboon’s left hand

in his own right and let the baboon open the door for them. The muzak was “Bungle In The Jungle” by Jethro Tul1, the baboon’s favorite song.

The baboon studied the menu anxiously while grunting and blowing breath out of his nostrils and then he shifted his weight

first left and then right swaying with his lips pursed.

Hero coughed up a gob of brown phlegm into a folded piece

of state-toilet paper; the baboon squinted as Hero refolded it

and wiped his mouth with a corner of it and then with

the back of his hand. A middle-aged Pakastani rent-a-cop

wearing a uniform two sizes too big and a pair of painfully,

ill fitting scuffed up black plastic shoes approached them.

“Please, sirr, . yourr dog, thee sign,” he said in English

with a very pronounced Urdu accent and then he pushed his

stained rent-a-cop’s hat back on his shiny bald brown head

so it wouldn’t fall over into his eyes. At the same time

he motioned with his other hand towards a sign that read:

“NO PETS” that was hung directly above another one that read:

“NO SHIRT, NO SHOES, NO SERVICE”

that were both affixed to the outside of the counter. They

were next in line. Hero told the Paki that the baboon was

neither a dog or his pet and turned so that his back was

to the security guard. The guard tried to tell him something

but Hero wasn’t paying any attention to him. The baboon

was flaring his nostrils and staring hard at the Paki now.

Hero tugged on his hand and pointed to the pictures on the

menu above the serving area when a uniformed Police Officer

of the NYPD (Quality of Life) Street Crimes Task Force came

walking through the doors for his 6 P.M. meal. The police officer straightened his hat so he wouldn’t look like the greasy

Indian rent-a-cop with the cheap plastic shoes and frumpy

uniform who was waving at him to come over to where he was

standing next to a very stoned looking white guy with long,

dirty blond hair a big black messenger bag, and a very

large expensive looking dog. Hungry, the cop noticed they

were on the shortest line and headed over anyway. The Indian

began talking right away, too rapidly for the cop, and he

told him so, “Whoa! Whoa there, Raji! Easy now, easy . What’s’a

matta’?” he said as he checked out the menu. Famished, he

saw where it said that a McFishy Samich was only .99¢ for

the next week – which suited him just fine because he was

into Vinny Umbatz for 3 large as of that weekend thanks

to those bums, The Jets, and that big mouthed pretty-boy,

Boomer Esiason. “Fuckin’ bums,” he mumbled. The rent-a-cop

was trying to explain to P.O. Rigitonelli, pointing at the

baboon and then at Hero who were now first and at the

counter ordering, “Uhm, lemme’ get two Big McBovine Burgers,

two McCheesy Burgers, two regular french-fries and two medium cokes, ok?” Hero said, and then looked at the baboon. “Is that for here or to go, baby?” a sexily overweight,

black pre-GED student asked him. She was wearing a mustard

and rust colored uniform intentionally two sizes too small

for her ample figure along with a matching hat that looked

like it belonged to J.J. Walker. Hero nodded to the baboon

who nodded back as he scratched his purple ass with his

right hand waiting for the pause of indecision to pass

because Hero was too wasted and the baboon couldn’t

decide if they should stay and eat or take their McFood

home where it would probably be cold by the time they got

there. He was getting anxious. Hero was nodding and, but

for this simple fact, the continued delay was keeping the

baboon from eating and he was famished – he’d missed lunch

– having subsisted all day on nothing more than a buttered

roll, a coffee (light and sweet) and a box of stale animal

crackers that gave him indigestion.

P.O. Rigitonelli asked Hero in his hurry-the-fuck-up-and get-

outta’-my-fuckin’-face voice if he was done ordering.

Sanil Mullagetwany was still speaking to the side of Officer

Rigitonelli’s head. The policeman began to get steamed at

all the uninvited sensory input and then his radio began

squauking that all available units were to respond to a

10-54 @ 6th Street and 2nd Ave. involving a hearse and

the Lubavtcher Mitsvah Mobile – “report of pedestrian

injuries. All available units – please respond. “

Sanil was speaking as loudly and slowly as he could the

way a lot of people will do when they’re trying to talk

to somebody who doesn’t speak their language. He was really

starting to aggravate the living shit out of Iggy Rigitonelli,

who pushed his hat back on his balding head prompting Hero

to perk right up, turn, and say, “I swear – you two could

pass for brothers – or,” realizing his mondo fuck-up as

reflected in the cop’s expression, “at the very least cousins?”

And, after a very small interlude of less than a second

– losing volume and enthusiasm – the words, “I swear,”

and then he just stood there looking at Rigitonelli

who was beginning to break a sweat and shaking his head

he looked up and started yelling at Hero, “Just what the

fuck is wrong with you?! Huh? Look at’choo, you high?! You

look fuckin’ high! You got any drugs on you?!” Which he

was and he did. Hero winced with every word Officer Rigitonelli blasted at him and backed into the baboon who was standing up against the counter and sniffing, leaning over as far

as he could while still holding onto Hero’s hand – which

made Lakeesha, the counter girl, back up herself next to

the McFries station in genuine fright.

“Yo, Mistah’ – your dog!” she called to Hero with quiet

alarm staring at the back of his head and then she glanced

to her left looking for an escape route. The baboon snuffled

and sniffed and began baring his teeth excited by the commotion

going on behind him, Hero’s suddenly sweaty hand and

Lakeesha’s plump trembling flesh which he now equated with

the smell of McFood’s french fries and the unmistakable

notion that Hero was trying to push him over the counter.

He must have decided that they would in fact

stay and his famished low blood sugar simian brain put

it all together that he was a “go” to chow down on some

Lakeesha and fries (the soda machine was right nearby).

[see Twinkie defense. id.]

Officer Rigitonelli told Hero, “Turn the fuck around,

asshole! Put your hands on the fuckin’ wall!”

As soon as Hero let go of the baboon’s hand he leapt

with all fours up onto the counter and over it, his teeth

fully bared, his mouth open, and with stringy drool flying

everywhere, claws extended from splayed paws sailing

through the empty air with the fur on his back bristling and screeching a high note to herald his attack directly upon Lakeesha Hattiesburg Thomas, 19 years young – unwed mother of four children by three different fathers – one underage and on Rikers Island and another in Attica locking in A-block in the 33rd cell of 7 company directly below Hero.

Officer Pigitonelli’s partner came in shouting, “What

the fuck, Rigi?! Can’t we just get the fuckin’ food and

get the fuck outta ‘ here before someone sees us? I don’t

wanna’ deal with that pack’a bleedin’ yids and niggers and all that shit around the corner. C’mon, I’m starvin’! Que fa, gumba?”

Which really caught Piggi’s vein in a vice like grip something

proper – he couldn’t stand it when that bambala pollock

tried to speak Italian – he always sounded so phony.

Rigi was facing Zulkowitz, who he’d always suspected of

being a Jew anyway. The rent-a-cop, Sanil, was shouting

at the baboon and backing up. Hero looked up just in time

to see Lakeesha fake right, dip left and with the crazy

smooth stick and move she psyched the baboon and missing

her he landed on the heated metal conveyor belt that was

– at that very moment – carrying two McBovine Burgers and

two McCheesy Burgers right towards him all nice and hot and

cheesy wrapped up and ready to go. He forgot all about

Lakeesha who was now going for the fire extinguisher at

the other end of the counter. All the other girls had run

for the relative safety of the tiny – actually miniscule –

managers office where the assistant manager, Jameson Spokane,

a 23 year old first year community college student, was counting

out change from a register tray that was alleged to

have come up .23¢ short at the close of the previous shift.

All 5 of the counter girls – minus Lakeesha – piled in

burying Jameson and someone’s fat ass slapped down on the

edge of the black plastic register tray he was counting

out sending change everywhere and its sharpest corner

right into the assistant manager’s left eye which, although

he had closed it quickly, was scratched quite seriously

requiring a very uncomfortable litmus test to find out whether

or not any blood had seeped into his cornea.

The dual sound of Rigitonelli and Zulkowitz’s radios were

initially like being surrounded and then suddenly music

to Hero’s ears as he heard them being requested by name

to respond immediately to the 10-54: it appeared that the

overturned Mitsvah Mobile had collided with the hearse from

a Baptist funeral on its way from Harlem to Crown Heights.

The yids were outnumbered 4 to 1 and the crowd was getting

ugly. Over his shoulder, Hero could see flashing red and

white lights heading the wrong way up 6th Street. He turned

his head to follow the sound of a fire extinguisher being

sprayed from about 10 feet away at the baboon who was running

in the opposite direction as that of the conveyor belt with

a mouthful of McBovine Burgers and tattered wrappers, hurriedly trying to fit the fourth and final McCheesy Burger without falling off of the heated “treadmill” he’d created by his

very presence – gaining no ground – but not losing any either.

A large, shiny, swollen purple ass faced Hero and Zulkowitz

said, “What the fuck iz’at?!” to anyone who could answer.

Lakeesha aimed high and shouted, “Now I’m gonna’ bust yo’

shit fo’ real – you hairy purlpe ass motherfucker!” And

this time she hit the baboon dead in his butthole with the frosty fire extinguisher causing him to make a sound that none of them would hear again in their entire lives. It was guttural and screeching and all at once everyone froze as the baboon leapt to the fries station and his face showed such utter terror that even

the pigs felt bad for him. His right hand had slipped on

the oil and his rear right leg had gone splashing into the

Friolator – coming up with a large foot full of soggy, oil

drenched fries which, for the Baboon’s sake, were lukewarm

because the computer automatically turned the heat off whenever

the unit was left unattended too long.

Quiet, calm, and well fed, the Baboon sat with his purple

and white foamy ass on a small mountain of french fries

under the orange glow of the heat lamps and his fur was

illuminated so that everyone there was witness to his wonderful

majesty and natural beauty. He kept eating french fries

and staring at everybody and the whole restaurant fell silent

but for some distant laughing and giggling that was coming

from inside the manager’s office where all of the counter

girls were engaged in a very loose game of slap-n-tickle

with Jameson Spokane while Marion, who was sitting on his lap, kept trying to hold a bag of ice to his scratched and